


ashes

by mouthbites



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Tents, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 09:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12478956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouthbites/pseuds/mouthbites
Summary: that postapoc(?) cowboys(??) au ive been sitting on for 4 years. as usual, might be continued but idk





	ashes

**Author's Note:**

> that postapoc(?) cowboys(??) au ive been sitting on for 4 years. as usual, might be continued but idk

the fire has burned down to embers, just a deep red glowing in the darkness.

the horizon sits in a wide ring around him, a compact black against the slightly less black of the sky. the hills in the distance, faint contours in daylight, are not near or large enough to make a difference. there are no trees on the plains, only low bushes and thin, twisted shrubs, struggling in curls around the wind.

the sky stretches wide overhead, cupping the rim of the world, covered in stars. some bigger, clear dots, pale and flickering. some small, just pinpricks, clustered together in blurry patches. 

half a sphere, like a snowglobe. sicheng had one of those when he was a kid. it had a plastic figurine in it, a kitten on skates, some kind of fluid, and large flakes of white, like shaved coconut, whirling madly when you shook it, then slowly settling again.

sicheng hunches down and pulls the zipper along its curved track, splitting the canvas wall with a scratchy sound. he lets himself tip forward, knees landing on the tent floor, hand pawing around in the dark till it finds a familiar clunky shape. sits back against his heels, deftly pulls the handle out from it’s slot and rolls it around in quick circles until the flashlight blinks alive, laying a cone of light over the inside of the tent.

their mats and sleeping bags are already rolled out, pushed up against the walls but still no more than a narrow strip of space left between. 

sicheng reaches for his pouch in the corner and puts down his toothbrush, sets his bottle by the wall. some drops of water still cling to his jaw and he wipes it away with his sleeve. 

he pushes up on a hand and twists himself around, landing on his ass on the floor. leans forward to untie his dusty boots, whacks them against each other to beat off some of the sand before tucking them into a corner under the tent flap, then zips the hatch closed again. 

he strips off his jeans and jacket and sweater, leaving the long johns and the henley. bunches the sweater up, transforming it into its nighttime function of pillow, before crawling down into his sleeping bag, settling on his back.

when he lifts his arm to tuck his hand under his head the smell from his armpit reaches him, musky and deep, but he barely notices. the first week or so you might feel dirty, but then the grime and dust and sweat settles into you, like an extra coating on your skin, protective. they laugh about it sometimes, daring each other to sniff socks, but a month in neither of them cares. they rinse off occasionally in whatever creek they come across, but it’s not like there’s a lot of washing back home either.

he remembers distantly the bathroom in the flat when he was a kid; bathing every night. the shiny, white tub. bubbles and rubber ducks. his mother drying him off afterwards. a fluffy blue towel.

he doesn’t remember a lot. but some things.

sicheng watches the curved ceiling hanging over him, the lamp sending strange shadows over the canvas. the soft night wind whispers by outside, stroking the tent walls, brushing through dry bushes and tufts of grass. 

he can hear the herd, if he listens for it, not far away - the comforting mix of shuffling, huffing, grunting, chewing. the occasional call between mother and child. the kind of sounds so worn to the ears that he only really hears it when they’re not there. if he can hear them, all is well. if it’s quiet - that’s when you start to worry.

he’s tired, as after all days on the move, limbs heavy on the thin mat. but he’s not sleepy. his mind is clear. there’s a small knot in his belly.

he’s not sure what it is. perhaps it’s the weather. it hasn’t rained for weeks now, and the morning dew is scarce and frozen, fading mysteriously into nothingness rather than melting in the pale morning sun. the grass is stiffened and yellowed, crackling sadly under his feet as he walks.

perhaps it was earlier, when they had set up camp and he lit the fire. he hunched down, ran his thumb over the short nails of his fingers, watching the little pyramid of twigs and dried hay, focusing absently. sometimes it takes a minute, a couple of tries to make it work. today he felt it build up almost immediately, barely had time to stick his hand into the kindle before sparks flew off his fingertips, and even though it doesn’t hurt he quickly pulled his hand back as flames started to flick up from the tangle.

he’s not scared of sleeping. he hasn’t had regular nightmares in years. but he lies there and wonders if closing his eyes will bring images. flashes of scenes he has seen a hundred times, played before his inner view. he’s never sure if they’re actual memories, or mostly fabricated by his brain. fragments, things people have told him, glued together with his own subconscious imagination in a misfired attempt at processing, or a morbid urge to poke the sores.

the city, on fire. waking up from the sounds of blasts in the distance, heavy impacts making the window panes shudder, and then the alarms. grabbing the little red backpack, always packed and ready in the hallway. running together down the stairs because the elevator didn’t work, his mother pulling him down the crowded, chaotic streets, her fingers clasped stiff around his wrist like claws, people running and yelling. there were flames, large ones on far-away buildings and down side streets, and sicheng wanted to stop and watch, felt a weird need to see it, but she wouldn’t let him. they got to the shelter, a fortified basement filled to the brim with people, and he sat in her lap that night, the red backpack in his arms, unable to shake the feeling that it was all his fault. that he had made it happen.

there’s the sound of steps outside, rummaging, rustling. sicheng waits, listening. one minute, two, then the zipper is rolled open and jaehyun’s head pokes hair-first into the tent.

“hey,” he says, huffing as he climbs in and takes off his boots. he shifts to his knees, reaches out and closes both the outer and inner layers.

“you done?” sicheng asks.

“yeah,” jaehyun says. “it’s all good for the night.”

sicheng nods. “did you kill the fire?” he asks, even though he knows that jaehyun did, jaehyun always does, jaehyun wouldn’t leave it, wouldn’t forget it.

jaehyun sends him a mild glance, a hint of a smile on his lips. “i did.”

he peels off his clothes, tugging the shirt over his head, down to a worn tank. sicheng lets himself watch the curve of his back, the shapes of his arms in the yellow flash light, toned biceps catching dark shadows, trying to look like he’s just resting his eyes on nothing in particular in case jaehyun were to turn his head. his skin is soft and pale up to his jaw, where the reddish tan of his face takes over. sicheng always tanned better, skin darker and not as sensitive.

jaehyun lies back against his bedding, fiddling with his fly, then lifts his hips to tug the pants down his legs. he folds his clothes halfheartedly, tucking them away along the tent wall before crawling down into his sack.

the first time they met sicheng was twelve and had just arrived in the village.

“how old are you?” jaehyun asked him, and sicheng could immediately hear that the language wasn’t his first. his tongue struggled with the consonants and the intonation was off. but sicheng had travelled far and wide at that point, and met many people who talked funnily.

“i’m thirteen this year,” sicheng said, not wanting to feel more inferior than necessary in case the boy was older. 

but jaehyun’s face had lit up. it was a slightly chubby one, with a curtain of black hair and two dimples poking deep into his cheeks when he grinned. “me too,” he said, and then; “i’m zaixuan.”

they were sixteen when they were sent out together, just the two of them. men are scarce, lost in the wars. kids grow up quickly these days, his mother always says.

jaehyun never had more than an inch on him, chasing each other through the growth spurts. 

sicheng isn’t sure when he started loving him.

jaehyun shifts on his back. sicheng’s eyes trace the seams of the ceiling, the familiar spots and patches.

in the last couple of years there’s been variations to the occasional dreams. a new scenario. no buildings, no people. this time the plains are on fire in the night, grass and bushes blazing as far as the eye can see, crackling and roaring, the heat searing on his face, making his eyes burn and sweat break on his forehead. around him, the screams of panicked animals, shadows rushing past through the flames. he fucked up. he lost control. he’s alone. he doesn’t know where jaehyun is. jaehyun is gone.

“you okay?” jaehyun has turned his head to look at him.

“yeah,” sicheng says automatically. then adds; “just. can’t sleep.”

jaehyun makes a hum of acknowledgement and turns back, looking up again.

sicheng runs his thumb over his fingertips. cool and smooth. just skin.

“are you cold?” jaehyun asks, and sicheng sees the half grin that he’s unable to keep off his mouth.

sicheng’s lips pinch together in a smile of his own. “yeah,” he says, even though he’s not. 

jaehyun sits up, legs cocooned in his bag, grabs onto the edge of sicheng’s mat and tugs it closer, closing the gap. sicheng shifts over to his side, feeling jaehyun settle behind him, chest against his back. a hand fumbles by his thighs, then there’s a click, and the tent is dark.

sicheng quietly draws in a breath, and slowly lets it out again. he can feel his muscles slackening, body sinking flat against the ground. feels jaehyun’s warm breaths against the back of his neck, his arm resting light over his waist.

sicheng closes his eyes and sleeps.


End file.
